


From Two to Three

by AngeNoir



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Double Vaginal Penetration, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Manhandling, Multi, Rough Sex, Succubi & Incubi, Unexpected feelings, Voyeurism, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 03:12:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10630947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: Gaby and Napoleon managed to put aside their differences and realize their feelings for one another. Now if only the same could be said for Illya...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Franzeska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Franzeska/gifts).



> This was not supposed to be this long x.x

At some given point, Gaby had turned to Napoleon and said, not _quite_ as covertly as she could have, “Do you suppose he’s simply a virgin?”

Napoleon watched a lovely flush curl up the back of Illya’s throat – because, while perhaps _Illya_ still stood on formality, he and Gaby had quickly thrown all pretense of propriety the first time they had gotten captured as a unit and been strip searched in front of one another. (Ostensibly, it had been to humiliate and break the three of them, but Napoleon knew they were trying to upset either Illya or Napoleon into doing something reckless by treating Gaby in a _despicable_ manner. It had worked, of course – Illya was highly protective of the two of them – but the point here was that Gaby and Napoleon had decided to throw caution to the winds and simply became intimate [in more ways than one] with each other.)

After a few minutes, he shook his head regretfully. “I would argue that such a state would be impossible. Our Illya, with those rugged good looks? That handsome profile? That well-oiled machine of his body? No, I would say. And yet.”

“And yet,” Gaby murmured, and when Illya finally stalked away like an affronted feline, the two of them fell into giggles, Gaby curling under Napoleon’s chin and resting her arm against his upper thigh, stroking lightly. The two of them were celebrating the completion of a successful mission – well, it _had_ been the three of them, but Gaby and Napoleon had gotten tipsy enough to try and extend yet another invitation to Illya. Illya, like the cat he was (that he claimed he _wasn’t_ ) had practically puffed up twice his size and then made a hasty retreat.

 

***

 

They had fought bitterly over him, in the beginning. Gaby, it had seemed, would win simply by virtue of the fact that Napoleon and Illya had had such a rocky start, and Illya seemed to be extremely protective of the young woman. After about five months of the three of them working together, Napoleon making overtures subtly (and not so subtly) to Illya, and Gaby being extremely catty to Napoleon every time he tried to coopt Illya’s attention from Gaby (according to Napoleon; according to _her_ , of course, she said that she had the exactly appropriate response to Napoleon’s rather desperate attempts to be noticed by their Peril) – after five months of that, Illya had left one of their little celebrations, much like this one, to go… do something, they weren’t quite sure what. It had left a pretty tipsy Gaby, and a _very_ drunk Napoleon, in the same room.

They had ended up shouting at one another, yelling about who had more right to Illya, who Illya _looked_ at, and in the morning Napoleon had never been more embarrassed by his actions while drunk than what he had said then – but the resolution of the fight, well…

Gaby had slapped him, at one point, after Napoleon had accused her clothing choices of being deliberately tantalizing (in his defense, it was after she had accused Napoleon deliberately searching for moments to take his shirt, and sometimes even his undershirt, off in Illya’s presence, so she had _technically_ been calling him loose _first_ ) and Napoleon had jerked back, surprised, and then had stepped into her space, crowding her against the back of the settee. “I am _drunk_ ,” he had said, as articulately as he could manage, “which is why you got that one free, but for the future, slapping is only acceptable in a bed, at certain times!”

For a moment, Gaby had said nothing, and in Napoleon’s inebriated state he had thought he had won the argument, finally stunned her into silence, but then Gaby reached up to grab Napoleon’s lapel and dragged his mouth against hers.

They had upended, gone toppling over the back of the couch, and the sex had not been… particularly remarkable in any way. They were both drunk, after all, and Napoleon had come embarrassingly quickly, and had barely gotten Gaby over that particular hill once.

Still, the next morning he had woken up to realize he was still in Gaby’s hotel room. Not only that, but his trousers, shirt, and undershirt were missing, though his stockings were still on his feet and, somehow, his tie was merely loose around his neck. Gaby, meanwhile, was wearing nothing but her skirt – which was dangerously arranged so high that Napoleon was immediately aware that he had managed to do away with her undergarments at some point last night.

Then she had shifted, and he turned his head to see those sharp eyes, almost too wary and defensive, piercing into his very soul.

He had opened his mouth, but before he could do more than draw in a breath, Gaby murmured huskily, “Think very carefully about what you are about to say.”

He had closed his mouth, licked his lips. Realized he was – he wanted this. He wanted Illya, but Gaby – he wanted them _both_. And so he whispered in turn, “I merely regret I was not fully cognizant last night. My performance was much lower than usual levels.”

“And you would like to make that up to me?” she had hummed, shifting enough that certain parts of his body made his answer clear without a single word.

Still, he had quirked his lips up in a smile and murmured, “Well, now, I would hate to leave any of my partners unsatisfied.”

“Oh, of course. The great Napoleon Solo could not possibly let that happen,” Gaby had chuckled, rolling a little to straddle his waist, too high for his manhood to touch her most intimate part, low enough that he could gain _just_ a bit of friction, just enough to be maddening.

It had been easy to lever himself, suddenly, rolling the two of them so that she was beneath him, his body braced above her. “I aim to please,” he had purred, dropping his head almost before he had completed the words to nip teasingly at one of her enchanting nipples.

She had gasped, back arching underneath him, the tease of soft silken fabric and smooth, muscled thighs sliding along his legs and groin, and he shifted so that he could fully penetrate her.

But she had suddenly planted her foot and _pushed_ , sending him toppling onto his back, and she stumbled to her feet. A bit unsure, and even concerned, he had froze, but she was unzipping the skirt, letting it fall to her ankles, undoing the clasp in her hair that was still halfway attached. He barely had an appreciative moment before she dropped back down onto him, braced over _him_ now like a mare over her foal, her breasts – not overlarge, but definitely generous – hanging tantalizingly right out of reach of his mouth. “I didn’t tell you to change positions,” she had said archly, and something about that, some tone in her voice that was too close to their jealousy last night, had him shoving forward, sitting up and knocking her back against the front of the divan, has hands grasping her wrists and pinning them in place. The suddenness of it had her head snapping back against the cushion, her hair spilling wildly over her chest like a damned temptress.

“Perhaps,” he had growled, letting his lustful intentions show clearly in his gaze as she struggled and only managed to snug her mons right up against his hardness, “I found the other position more pleasing.”

She had been panting, clearly excited, eyes dilated, even as she writhed once more against his hold, nearly succeeding at pulling away before he widened his knees, pinning her thighs open, splaying her open to his roving gaze.

She was beautiful – young, younger than him by more than he would care to admit, tempting and terrifying in turns, her flesh firm and supple, her skin golden and her eyes wild. She had tried to get free, once – bucked beneath him, her back arching and breasts swaying with her movements, but Napoleon had been much more in control of his faculties then, and he had her bared and primed for his plunder. His first thrust in had made Gaby gasp; his second had elicited a delicious moan of surrender, and by his third thrust Gaby had been no longer actively fighting his strength but meeting his thrusts with her own.

Their second time had been much better than their first, though it wasn’t until their third time that they managed to reach a bed.

When he had finished – outside her body, painting stripes against her thighs and the top of her mound, jerking helplessly over Gaby’s limp and wrung-out body – he barely kept himself from collapsing on top of Gaby’s still trembling and shivering body.

“That was pretty good,” Gaby had slurred, eyes heavy and hot against Napoleon’s skin.

If he had had the energy, he would have made some remark about how he was fairly sure it was more than ‘pretty good’ – she had come three times, after all – but as it had been, he had been so tired and drained that all he could do was slump against the floor (they had slid down the divan and once more graced the floor with their presence) and gasp out, “Dear lord, the only thing that would make it more perfect would be involving our Peril.”

Next to him, Gaby had stiffened somewhat. He had met her eyes, and their new goal was formed.

Not, of course, that Illya Kuryakin was particularly helpful to this goal.

 

***

 

After the two of them had found pleasure with one another – repeatedly – they began sharing hotel rooms at night. Oh, they still rented all three separate rooms to have some level of propriety in the face of their handler and society in general, but they always came to Napoleon’s room to drink (Illya included) and Gaby never left if they had the downtime and luxury to sleep in their hotel rooms. The first two missions where they were out in the field and their closeness was noticeable to their partner, Illya had done his best to ignore it entirely. The third, Illya had definitely noticed – he had made a small, almost snide remark to Napoleon about whether he could spare Gaby to go over the mission briefing or not – and by the fourth both Gaby and Napoleon were well aware that Illya was both annoyed and upset by their closeness. The reasons for the anger were not quite clear – jealousy was the best motive, because it meant they could fold him in to their arrangement. But there could have been many other motives, and Illya was, on his best days, reticent and controlled. On his worst, there was no breaching his stone-like façade and impenetrable demeanor.

This was, of course, their fifth mission out in the field. Between missions, they remained in London with the rest of the U.N.C.L.E. agents, sometimes in the office, sometimes taking a well-deserved few days off, and during those times Gaby would sometimes invite Napoleon to her tiny apartment, or Napoleon would extend an invitation to Gaby to join him at some art showing or lecture. They met each other quite frequently, whether on the job or not, but in London, Illya was practically a ghost – in the office during his office hours, but almost impossible to find during their off time. Not only that, but Illya’s dwelling in England was still a mystery to both Napoleon and Gaby. Invitations to meet up and share time during their vacation days were studiously ignored – more than ever after Gaby and Napoleon began sharing sheets as well as time.

So it was only here, in a mission, would Napoleon and Gaby even have a chance to offer Illya a chance to be with them. It was only during missions that they would have any significant contact with him in any way. And here it was, with Gaby suggesting Illya was untouched, Illya stalking out of Napoleon’s hotel room, and once again the two of them were left alone.

“He didn’t like that implication at all,” Gaby murmured, nosing against Napoleon’s throat.

Napoleon already had a low thrum of arousal coursing through his body; his neck was sensitive enough to have him growling low, wrapping his arms around her waist and settling her firmly in his lap, placing her _just_ so in order to have her knees braced on either side of his thighs, her face against his chest. “No, my tiger, he did not,” he chuckled, but his voice was rough and heavy with the drink and the intense emotion coursing as an undercurrent in the room. “But I suppose we will eventually wear him down.”

“You know,” Gaby hummed, rocking against Napoleon’s lap, causing him to hiss and buck up once before getting himself under control, “he leaves his room in the early morning. Sometimes, going back to my room for, mmm, for clothing, I see him returning, or leaving. We could – ah, _Solo_ – we could follow him.”

“We are spies, after all,” Napoleon conceded distractedly. “Maybe—” her teeth nipped against the bottom of his chin, scraped down the column of his throat, and he shuddered. “Maybe later,” he growled, and then shoved forward to pin her down against the settee, her hair fanned out and her eyes laughing at him as she crossed her ankles against the small of his back, held him tight to her core. He could feel her heat pressed against the crotch of his trousers, and he reached down with shaking hands to tear at the wet lace at her center, his grasp rough enough, primal enough, to tear the delicate undergarment and let his fingers slide into the molten core of her.

“Ahh, Napoleon,” she purred, bowing her back to rub against his fingers.

He leaned back, sat up on his heels, aware that he needed to undo the front of his trousers, aware that he was still full clothed – as was Gaby – but too desperate to do anything except yank at the belt and free his already straining cock.

“Inside, Napoleon, now, don’t keep me waiting,” she gasped, breathed out fast and harsh, and he glanced up to see her wriggling her shoulders to slip the straps down, baring lace-covered breasts heaving with each pant.

With an inarticulate growl, Napoleon stopped trying to further free his flesh and instead knee-walked forward, shoving her skirt up, letting it fall like watered silk against her hips as he drove in like a hammer, punching forward and causing her to let out a sharp keen, head thrown back and neck bared.

Their coupling was harsh and fast, Gaby’s nails clawing against Napoleon’s collar and shoulders, digging into the cloth of his suit jacket. There was little to no finesse, but Napoleon had come to, resignedly, understand that their first time would be like that – harsh and desperate and raw. It wasn’t until their second, sometime even their third, time would they be able to really enjoy one another’s bodies, revel and take their time and explore.

When they could think straight again, Gaby punched his shoulder – lightly, nowhere near as hard as he knew she could punch. He grunted and rolled a little to get off of her and let her rest on his chest.

“I know men think with their little brain,” she murmured, voice weak but growing stronger. “However, this is no longer coincidence.”

“Hmm?” Napoleon grunted.

Gaby punched his shoulder again, a little harder this time. Valiantly, Napoleon tried to focus his body, think through the endorphins.

“Really, Napoleon,” she chided, chuckling slightly. “Think. We have had many encounters, have we not?”

He let out a weak laugh. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

She dragged her knee up between his thighs, pressing threateningly – teasingly, at least Napoleon hoped teasingly – against his cock. “Be dignified, Solo,” she huffed. “Think. When are we most like this?”

“Like this?”

With a deep sigh, she slowly pushed herself up, readjusting the top of her dress to cover her mauled breasts. “Please, Napoleon. We need to follow Illya tonight. Do not sleep.”

She wasn’t making sense, and so Napoleon reluctantly shoved himself upright, hating the feeling of the air against his cooling flesh – his _wet_ flesh – that was almost the only thing exposed from their intense intimacy. “I’m afraid I’m not following, Gaby.”

“Illya avoids all closeness. Everything, all parts of it. You should have seen him that first mission, Napoleon.”

“I saw enough of him,” Napoleon groaned, flopping his hand around to locate the small towel he knew had come with the champagne he and Gaby had indulged in.

Gaby shook her head, picking up her discarded clothes and putting a hand on her hip. “You foolish man,” she said fondly. “You didn’t see him with me in our suite. So terrified of getting close. So careful of me. I feel like he’s never been truly intimate with anyone. And yet. Every time he leaves us, we cannot tear each other open fast enough. We cannot control ourselves.”

Napoleon squinted at her, not quite sure he was following her line of thought. “You believe Illya is the reason behind our… franticness?”

“We would never know until we discover more about him. The worst we could do, Napoleon, is trail him and find out where he goes.”

The phrasing struck Napoleon as odd, and he blinked at her a bit, repeating her words in his head, before pinpointing it. “The least, you mean. The least we could do.”

Gaby gave an artful shrug and walked – glided, more like – towards the sleeping quarters of the hotel room. “If you are going to quibble about semantics—”

Getting to his feet, Napoleon yawned and padded after her, slipping off his suspenders and undoing the buttons of his shirt. “Are you quite sure this needs to be done tonight?”

“If not tonight, when? Seize the moment. You taught me that saying,” Gab reprimanded him, clicking her tongue like an old maid. “Besides, we have still a good hour before we need to keep watch over Illya’s door. I’d like something slower and more fulfilling, if you please.”

Who was Napoleon to deny Gaby what she wanted?

 

***

 

“Napoleon.”

Napoleon grunted and rolled to his side.

“ _Napoleon_.”

His name poked at him, and he yawned, grumbled under his breath, and burrowed deeper into the lush sheets pooled around his body.

“ _Napoleon Solo_ ,” someone snarled, and there was enough anger in those words that he roused himself blearily, blinking open his eyes. At least, he thought his eyes were open, but the room was so dark around him that for all he knew, he was still soundly asleep.

As he should be. They had had a hard mission, and it had been very tiresome…

Something pinched his nose tight, and with a reflexive gasp his lungs catapulted him into full alertness. After some blinking and wild movements, he realized that Gaby was leaning over him, her dress draped sinfully over her bare skin. Just barely, he could make out the taut flesh of her nipples through the silk, but he knew better than to mention it when she was looking at him with such a fierce glare.

“Is it time already, my dear?” Napoleon yawned, stretching and arching his back to work the kinks out of his body.

“If we hurry, we may even catch up with him. I heard him leave not five minutes past.”

With a resigned sigh, Napoleon dragged himself upright and groped about for the hotel dressing gown. Had he been going somewhere he intended to be looked at, he would have dressed properly, but as it was, he was only investigating Illya, and Illya did not possess a very outgoing personality. How far could the man be traveling, after all?

 

***

 

“Why do I let you talk me into these harebrained schemes of yours, Gaby?” Napoleon grumbled, pulling the sash around his dressing gown tighter, hiding behind a corner with Gaby as they waited for Illya to emerge. Illya had entered that dingy little door down the alley, and Napoleon sincerely regretted wearing only his dressing gown and desperately hoped that this would be resolved before anyone decided to become active and walk past where he and Gaby were both loitering on the street corner. Not only that, but Napoleon dearly prayed Illya wasn’t meeting with other Russian agents to pass along information, or anything else that could jeopardize his presence on their team. After all, Illya was part of an international team, which meant both that Illya was privy to some sensitive secrets, and that Illya was expected to live according to certain restrictions and moral codes.

“This is ridiculous,” he huffed, highly aware of his pajama pants underneath his thick dressing robe. “Gaby, this is—”

“Stop _whining_ , Napoleon, for heaven’s sake, you decided not to put on any clothes beyond that, so deal with it,” Gaby hissed, stepping backwards onto Napoleon’s foot, making him yelp quietly. “It’s only been thirty minutes, and it’s still easily two hours from sunrise. Deal with it.”

Napoleon grumbled under his breath. “We could be in bed, Gaby, comfortable and _warm_ ,” he mumbled, huddling closer against her back. She was shivering, too – she wasn’t wearing any underthings, if he remembered correctly, just the dress, and it wasn’t exactly warm out. A gentleman would offer her his coat – but Napoleon had no coat, merely his robe, and it was the only thing between his undershirt and the whole world, so instead he did his best to envelop her from behind to let them share body heat.

“I’m _fine_ , Napoleon, honestly, a little chill will not harm—” Gaby grumbled, shoving at his arms a little, which was when, of course, the door opened and a couple stumbled out – followed by Illya.

Immediately, the two of them fell silent, huddled together in the shadows of the building they had chosen as their vantage point. It looked suspiciously as if Illya had agreed to become a third for some _other_ people, and Napoleon was both confused and hurt that Illya could even think to do such a thing. When he began to grumble as much to Gaby, however, she elbowed him in the ribs.

He let out a hiss – the mission had been successful, yes, but he was still _tender_ , thank you very much Gaby – but she jerked her chin forward in an unmistakable gesture for him to look where she wanted him to look.

Unwillingly, he turned his eyes to the couple that had paused in the alley to vociferously eat each other’s faces off, it appeared. Sloppy and uncontrollable, they were barely bothering with any type of intimacies or niceties; the woman already had her arms around the man’s neck, one leg hiked around his hips, and the man had just finished shoving his trousers down and roughly shoving her dress up to her hips.

There was no finesse – and that stirred a bell of familiarity at the back of his mind, reminding him of Gaby’s studiously casual observation, that after Illya left they had little to no control of themselves – and no real display of intimacy beyond the physical copulation that was both rough and short. Illya did nothing but stare at them, leaning forward ever so slightly, as if he would go and join them if he could. Napoleon could not puzzle the pieces together. None of them fit – none of them made sense. He and Gaby had invited Illya to join them often enough that if Illya needed to watch to feel sexual pleasure, he could have done so with the two of them, not go off to a bar that was clearly low-brow and stare at two other strangers instead. If Illya had wanted something from Gaby and Napoleon…

Well, that wasn’t quite right. Illya was the very pinnacle of self-denial and control. ‘Capitalist indulgences’ was one of the kindest ways Illya described much of Gaby’s lifestyle choices, let alone Napoleon’s. Perhaps he felt embarrassed or shy to make mention of his desires to them because of that?

The woman came with embarrassing quickness, and Napoleon felt his cheeks heat as, even from across the street and around the corner, he could hear her soft shrieks and yelps. The male partner followed her soon after, but then – Illya turned and _vanished_ , as if the very shadows had swallowed him up and hidden him from sight. The couple were dazed, the woman – now that Napoleon was looking (at her face, not her disheveled state), she was very young and almost plain in a way – blushing a deep red, the man (a bit older, more around Napoleon’s age than his partner’s) doing the same, the back of his neck flushed. They looked…

They looked dazed. Surprised. Completely unaware that they had had a watcher from the shadows.

“ _Napoleon_.”

It took Napoleon a moment to realize Gaby had been tugging on his sleeve, and he looked down at her to see her fiercely glaring at him. “Yes, darling?” he asked.

“Come, he is making his way back home. He is coming back early – I think he suspects he was being watched. When we approach him, you will let _me_ do the talking. Am I clear?”

With an artful shrug of his shoulders, Napoleon lazily nodded. “I find it simpler to follow your orders than question them, my little princess,” he said.

Stomping on his foot once more – he winced; the shoes she had had in his suite were heeled, and not particularly friendly – she replied tartly, “See that you do, then. Come along, before you catch your death. How Americans have come to survive so much, I do not know – you are a perpetually weak people. Cannot even handle a bit of wind.”

“You’re shivering just as much as I am, Gaby,” Napoleon drawled, but he didn’t disagree or linger behind her, keeping pace with her for the ten minute walk it was back to their hotel.

The concierge looked up, a most unamused and dry look on his face as he took in Napoleon’s undressed state and Gaby’s most improper clothing choices. With a sheepish, almost foolish smile, Napoleon shrugged. “We seemed to have misplaced my lady’s ring. We retraced our steps as far as we could, but if anyone brings a ring to the desk, would you be so kind as to inform room 409?”

The makeshift excuse worked, of course; the concierge’s face softened and he made all the right murmurs of assurance that he would do so, and would be on the lookout for the mademoiselle’s ring. Gaby did not bother with the small talk; she had moved directly to the stairs, climbing them quickly.

“My dear – the elevators?” Napoleon asked, though he knew already he wouldn’t be taking them separate from her.

“It will take us longer to get up this way, and Illya needs time to return to his suite and undress. Undressed, he is far more likely to stay for the conversation than to remember he has some urgent business somewhere. He is not like you, you hedonist,” she teased, even as she ascended the next flight of stairs. “He would never accede willingly to exit a building in anything less than proper attire.”

Napoleon huffed and began scrambling up the stairs after her. “Remind me again why we are going to such lengths for this man who has refused us on multiple occasions?”

“Because you are a man,” Gaby said simply. “You do not pay attention. He is jealous of our closeness, but he also yearns for it. Something is keeping him from sharing our bedchamber, and I believe I have figured out what it is. Once I make it clear it is not an issue, we should have our Illya back to us, I think.”

That was fair enough, Napoleon had to concede. He was good at reading people’s feelings, emotions, and desires, but only when he focused. He never really exerted himself around Gaby or Illya, because they were close to him and Gaby had spoiled him; she was very forthright, and never let him consider or wonder whether she was upset or happy with him.

When they were finally on the fourth floor, Gaby walked straight to room 408 (her room was 406, though she had only been in it sparingly throughout the mission, being the bait for the weapons mogul they had been trying to draw out) and knocked briskly.

There was silence, but a startled kind of silence – before Gaby knocked again, insistently. “I will speak my piece from out here if I must, Illya, do not think I will not.”

The door opened, Illya half-dressed – standing in his undershirt but still had his suspenders and trousers on, shoes untied – behind the door, staring at them. Because Gaby had put the idea in his mind, because Gaby had chided him about not noticing Illya’s emotions, Napoleon was watching Illya’s face closely, and he could admit that he saw something close to longing on Illya’s face – but there was also, the barest flash, of _hunger_.

“Gaby?” he said, confused, face a blank mask once again, but his eyes widened in surprise when he saw Napoleon behind her. “Cowboy?”

Illya’s nickname for him had Napoleon shivering slightly, a shudder running up the back of his spine, but then Gaby was pushing into the room.

“Solo, what is this about?” Illya asked, knowing better than to stop Gaby but obviously unsettled enough to appeal to Napoleon’s character.

Napoleon smiled. “She wants answers, dear Peril, and I’ve learned she’s bound to get her way eventually; fighting her isn’t worth it.”

“Answers?” Illya asked.

Gaby moved past the room, all the way to where the bed sat in the back, and Napoleon hesitated. That was – too forward, especially since they didn’t know anything about Illya.

Scratch that; Gaby clearly had a few more pieces of the puzzle and so more comfortable with pushing the boundaries. Napoleon, however, was not.

She sat down, leaning back a little on her hands to make it clear that her dress covered her nakedness only just. Her eyes pinned Illya, and he froze, staring at her, and again that odd combination of lust and hunger came over his face.

“You are alp, are you not?”

Illya jerked as if physically hit.

The term was not one Napoleon was aware of, or comfortable with. He frowned at her, and then at Illya.

“You steal people’s dreams?” she clarified.

“No, never that!” Illya said harshly, his fists starting to clench, and without thinking Napoleon reached over and touched Illya’s wrist, hoping to calm him down.

Because he was so attuned to Illya, paying so much attention to Illya’s shift in body language and tone, he could feel a _pull_ coming from Illya, almost like a magnetic attraction, and Napoleon could feel his blood begin to thrum in response.

“Illya, you seem to think you have a dark secret you must hide. You do not share any knowledge with us, and who knows?” Gaby shrugged, deliberate and seductive, letting one strap of her dress fall down low enough to reveal that she really wasn’t wearing anything beneath the dress. “It may not be dark to us.”

“I nearly _killed_ someone,” Illya said, and his voice was so full of despair that it nipped Napoleon’s budding arousal immediately, and he stroked his fingers over Illya’s wrist, gently trying to calm Illya.

It didn’t seem to work; if anything, Illya became more agitated. “Look, see – Napoleon – _Solo_ , Solo would not do this, he would not if not for _me_. The two of you – never, never would any of this happen, if _not for me_.”

“What wouldn’t happen?” Gaby asked archly, sitting upright, and Napoleon was well-tuned to her by now that he recognized her seriousness, her sincerity. “Our invitations? Our worry for your care?”

“Oleg – in Russia, my mother – this _cannot_ happen. I swore I would not. I _will not steal_ what is not mine.”

“Ohh,” Gaby breathed, a slow exhalation that had Napoleon looking at her. “You are a more traditional creature. An incubus in truth. And you think we are not true? Our affections are not genuine?”

In an almost broken voice, Illya choked out, “Affections are _never_ genuine.”

Gaby stood up and brushed her hands over her dress; quick, sharp movements that did nothing to seduce and everything to indicate that she was getting to business. “Right. You must see someone to affect them? Or just be near?”

“I—” Illya looked stunned, and Napoleon was putting together as much of the puzzle as he could, scrambling to slot the pieces into place so that he might help Gaby instead of hinder. “I do not know,” Illya finally replied. “I – never. Experimented.”

“Well, then. You induce feelings of lust, correct? And this is why you hold yourself separate. And yet you need to feed off the feelings of lust, so you go and, what, induce lust in couples and stare at them? Is staring enough? Would participation be more filling?”

Gaby’s rapid-fire questions shoved Napoleon’s brain into overdrive, and he looked at Illya with narrowed eyes as such an intense look of desire and acute need seized Illya’s features, such deep and abiding yearning that Napoleon knew he would do whatever he could to give Illya what he so desired.

“Participation…” Illya murmured, and then he shook his head. “Is too dangerous. I cannot – I will – I _cannot_.”

“Now hang on, old boy,” Napoleon cut in. “Now I may be a little slow coming onto the same page as you and our brilliant chop shop girl, but if I understand correctly – you’re some type of supernatural creature?”

Gaby punched Napoleon’s shoulder – hard. He winced but continued, bravely, knowing his hedonistic tendencies were some of the most alluring weapons he had to convince Illya to do things he would not otherwise do, “A creature that feeds on, pardon my language, but the sex of two people. And, should you participate, it is a better… meal? Yet you refused our invitations, multiple times. Out of some misplaced sense of nobility, I suppose, but that’s a Commie for you. Now, Gaby and I have to somehow prove how much we’ve been wanting you here, between us or above us, or below us – we’re not picky. You need to be convinced how many times we discussed the length of your cock, whether you’d want to be splayed out beneath us, us pleasuring you at the same time as we took our pleasure from you, or whether you’d pin Gaby onto me, slide her onto my cock and then crush your cock against mine, stretch her out and control my pleasure and hers with just your cock.”

Illya’s eyes were dilated, spread wide and hungry, and he took half a step forward, swaying a little as if their very aura called to him.

“But if you’re not sure,” Napoleon drawled, wrapping an arm around Gaby’s middle, hugging her against his half-dressed self, “I’m sure you could just watch us. Since that seems to be how you’re handling it anyway.” He inched Gaby’s dress up her thigh, baring more and more scandalous inches to Illya’s hungry gaze – and it looked as if Illya was _starving_ , the way his eyes were glued to Gaby’s dress, her legs, the slow inches revealed, bit by bit.

“Did we tell you exactly how we got together?” Napoleon purred, taking careful steps back to Illya’s bed, Illya’s eyes almost entirely black, the blue ring of Illya’s eyes completely swallowed up by the dark of his pupil, and that dark gaze riveted on Napoleon and Gaby’s forms. It looked, for a moment, as if Illya’s canines were elongated, just slightly, and he let out an involuntary whimper when Napoleon dropped his hand, letting the material of Gaby’s dress swish back to her knees.

Then Napoleon pulled his arm up from Gaby’s waist to right under Gaby’s breasts, lifting them and dragging Gaby’s dress higher, to mid-thigh. With his free hand, he hastily undid the drawstring of his sleeping pants and let them fall down, then sat down on Illya’s bed.

For some reason – there was an undercurrent of desperation, yes, something Gaby and Napoleon were familiar with from before, but it was easy to ignore it, to ignore the pounding thrum of arousal and the urge to sink into nothing but primal copulation. It was easy to focus on Illya’s face, on Illya’s naked craving painted for everyone to see, and put this show on for Illya. To invite Illya in the only way Napoleon knew how.

Through silver words and charming actions.

“We were fighting over _you_ ,” Napoleon murmured, humming as he jerked Gaby’s against his crotch, and she let out a soft sigh, letting her head fall back, her hair drape against Napoleon’s shoulder. Now Napoleon _tore_ Gaby’s dress from hem to neckline, letting it fall in half on either side of her lithe, young body, proudly displaying Gaby’s nipples drawn tight in desire, baring her most intimate area to Illya’s gaze, letting Illya see what Napoleon could feel – how absolutely _wet_ Gaby was, how much blood was rushing to the area, how puffy and needy she was for something breaching her. Not only that, but Illya could see Napoleon’s manhood, thick and dark with blood, weeping from Napoleon’s need.

“We fought and ended up wrestling and then we ended up—” Napoleon paused, almost breathless, and watched Illya take a step forward, drawn to the two of them on the bed. “ _Fucking_ ,” he said, relishing the dirtiness of the word, the dark images it conjured up that tantalized and teased. “We ended up soiled with our release and when we woke in the morning, _we did it again_ and as much as we desperately desired to have you there we told ourselves that if we could not have _you_ , we would have each other and we would try, of course we would try, because what draws us to you is your strength, your power, your kindness and our solidity and your _steadiness_.” Napoleon had lowered his voice more and more, drawing Illya closer and closer, and now he physically lifted Gaby’s hips up, positioned his throbbing erection, and plunged her down onto his flesh.

Gaby groaned, fists clenched in the bedsheets on either side of Napoleon, and Napoleon grunted, eyes flying shut for all of half a second before he forced them wide and stared at Illya, locking gazes with their partner, their protector, their third. “Illya,” he breathed, the name as soft a caress as he could make it, even as he rocked slowly, so slowly, teasing out from Gaby pleading whimpers and whines, “Illya, can you not see that we loved you long before we fucked one another, long before we knew each other? Can you not understand that even if you were somehow controlling us to love you, it would not matter, because in the end, the only truth we know is that _we love you_ and we want you with us? Staying away from us – because you do, oh, you _do_ , does not lesson our love, does not lower our desire to have you as part of what we are.”

“Ill- _ya_!” Gaby yelped as Napoleon slid a hand down her front, flicking her clitoris and dragging a keen from her throat.

It was – as if a dog had been let off its chain, as if something deep in Illya had snapped, and he tore from his hips his pants, snapping the suspenders, hefting his heavy cock in his hand as he stepped forward, determined and teeth bared, and now Napoleon knew what it meant to have Illya’s full weight of whatever power he had baring down on the two of them – now he saw a beast beneath Illya’s otherwise outwardly stoic demeanor. Illya shoved Gaby’s shoulders, pushed Napoleon down against the bed, and Napoleon had the brief moment of thinking _this is exactly like one of the fantasies I described, how lucky are we?_ before Illya dropped his head to Gaby’s breast and suckled at it like a babe.

She let out a scream of pleasure, convulsing around Napoleon’s cock, and Napoleon choked out her name, and then Illya’s name, and then some mash of the two names as Illya _began to slide his cock alongside Napoleon’s_.

Gaby was thrashing between them, overwhelmed, and even Napoleon could scarce do more than breathe as Illya worked – slowly, ever slowly, and even now Illya was careful, was considerate, so he couldn’t be a beast no matter what he thought – in, inch by slow inch, and then Gaby was contracting around them, limbs frozen.

“Again,” Illya growled, and his voice was almost unrecognizable, so deep and guttural it was, “ _again_.”

Napoleon was next, but it wasn’t – he felt his release building, let out a surprised gasp, and then Illya’s fierce eyes locked on his and Illya bared his teeth, and then Napoleon was coming but he wasn’t, some limbo-like state that released endorphins but Napoleon, Napoleon was _still hard_ —

Gaby came a second time, a third, and Illya kept driving in and out, and all Napoleon could do was lie there like a pinned butterfly, unable to do anything but gasp and pray for release, to finally, really come, only it was, it was that half-release, it was that partial release, and he wanted a full release, he wanted to soften and spill but somehow he knew that Illya _was not letting him_ —

“I would have you both,” Illya was growling above them, voice broken and hoarse as if he was too caught up in what he was doing to realize what he was saying, “I would have you bent for me, Napoleon, like a bitch in heat, splayed out and begging, your words muffled in Gaby’s, Gaby’s _cunt_ —”

Gaby was begging, Napoleon was vaguely aware, small animalistic sounds as she gripped limply at Illya’s shoulders, and Illya’s fingers were entwined with Napoleon’s, holding Napoleon’s arms above all three of them, pinning Napoleon’s hands against the bedding, and Illya looked as if he was drinking down immortality, the elixir of life, manna from heaven itself as he finally gasped out, “Yes, yes, _yes_ , _now_ —”

With a shriek, Gaby’s limbs locked and she clenched down, hard, punishingly, and then Napoleon was finally, really, spilling out in the sopping mess that was Gaby’s vulva, and Illya roared like a lion, his seed infinitely hotter and somehow more watery than Napoleon could have guessed.

There was then absolute silence, Gaby limp and unmoving above Napoleon, Napoleon himself struck practically dumb and blind, his vision fuzzing at the edge from the intensity, and then Illya was starting to – to cry?

“No, I did – I am sorry, not you two, _not you_ —”

“What… on earth… are you babbling about… now?” Napoleon croaked.

Illya’s face appeared over Gaby’s shoulder, stricken and terrified. “I – you are alive?”

“I haven’t died from good sex yet, Peril, and I doubt you’ll be the one to do me in, though that was definitely more intense than I have ever had in my life,” Napoleon whispered, barely any sound or heat to his words, but he could string a sentence together and that was the most important part.

“Gaby – poor Gaby—”

“Is probably asleep,” Napoleon grunted. “She’s also a heavy girl. Do you mind?”

Tenderly, gently, Illya lifted Gaby, and with weak, uncoordinated arms Napoleon crawled his way to the actual pillows. “At least it was a bed,” Napoleon croaked. “My first time with Gaby – it was the floor.”

Illya looked so affronted at that, Napoleon began to wheeze with laughter. Illya placed Gaby next to Napoleon and proceeded to – well, he was Russian. He didn’t exactly ‘wring his hands,’ but there wasn’t another way for Napoleon to describe what Illya was doing.

“You are sure Gaby is—”

“Illya,” Napoleon said with a soft sigh, “she already came twice tonight, before we confronted you here. Are you full?”

The question seemed to throw Illya, and he paused, eyes distant as he considered the question. With heroic effort, Napoleon ignored the ridiculous (torn, hanging from his body, darkened with fluids) attire of Illya and managed to drag the comforter down beneath both himself and Gaby.

“I – I am. _Full_. I am… full,” Illya said wonderingly.

“Good. We will feed you from now on. No more strangers,” Napoleon grumbled. “Get down here and cuddle us.”

It was a risk, of course – closing his eyes and letting his exhaustion drag him under, but on the very edges of his conscience he felt the bed dip, felt Illya climb close.

Napoleon fell asleep with a smile.

 

***

 

“Miss,” Napoleon said, inclining his head gravely. What else was he to do? His clothing was a mess, and all he had was Illya’s sheet – half of which was wrapped around Gaby, the other half around himself – and all he could do was shuffle a little faster to his hotel door.

The maid, eyes rounded, stared as the two of them reentered Napoleon’s suite, and for half a second, they did not meet each other’s gaze. When they did, peals of laughter rang out, and Gaby punched Napoleon – not as hard as she could.

“What – what is that for?” Napoleon gasped. “I’m in just as bad a predicament as you.”

“I’m _sticky_ ,” Gaby sniffed archly, letting the sheet fall from her shoulders as she strode into Napoleon’s bathroom.

Behind Napoleon, there was a knock at the door. Eagerly, Napoleon turned to open it, revealing a slightly sheepish Illya.

“The maid, she gave such a look,” he mumbled.

Napoleon grinned, grabbing Illya’s lapel and pulling him close to put a light kiss against Illya’s lips. “At least, Peril, _you_ were dressed.”

At that, Illya began laughing, which was when Gaby shouted from the bathroom, “Why am I alone in the bath? You two have forgotten me already?”

Smiling, Napoleon let the sheet fall from his shoulders and, naked, waggled his eyebrows at Illya. “As my lady commands,” he purred, stalking towards the bathroom, unable to keep the wide grin from his mouth as he heard Illya’s hurried undressing behind him.


End file.
